


Give Me Back The Berlin Wall

by MistressKat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Challenge Response, Community: evilsam_spn, Dubious Consent, M/M, Songfic, evil!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is not insanity. It is survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me Back The Berlin Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Although this story was written for the [Soul Overturned evil!Sam Fic/Vid/Art Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/evilsam_spn/15590.html), it really is more about Dean than about Sam, evil or otherwise. The song that inspired the fic is _The Future_ by Leonard Cohen, and the story title and the italicised verses at the beginning of each section are all direct quotations from the lyrics. Many thanks to my marvellous beta-reader [virtualinsomnia](http://virtualinsomnia.livejournal.com/) who valiantly suffers through all the angst I throw at her, and without whom this story would be painful to read for all the wrong reasons.
> 
> The story is also available in Russian: [Translation](http://eva-lain.livejournal.com/3290.html) by [eva_lain](http://eva-lain.livejournal.com/).

 

_give me back my broken night  
my mirrored room, my secret life_

 

 

_One-hundred-and-two, one-hundred-and-three, one-hundred-and–_ Dean watches himself in the wall-length mirror, touching elbows to knees over and over again, fingers laced behind his head.

After the crunches he does push-ups and uses the weights brought up from the hotel gym, counting the repetitions meticulously. There’s no real need to keep fit anymore, but it’s important that he does. Just in case.

He’s sweaty and tired, muscles happy with the exercise and remembered victories. In the shower Dean presses himself hard against the white tiles, all the soft vulnerable parts – face, palms, cock, the pale pink flesh of his upper thighs – crushed between the wall and his body, hurting but safe. He washes quickly and doesn’t linger on the bruises on his hips and around his arms like he once would have.

There’s a pile of clean clothes waiting on the bed and nothing but empty space in the wardrobe. The hangers weren’t replaced after Dean broke them apart and made a weapon out of the metal bits.

Morning chores done, he stands by the window for a long time before looking away.

Outside the world is burning.

Dean picks up the phone, dials room service and orders breakfast

 

***

_you don't know me from the wind  
you never will, you never did  
_

 

_  
_

Dad’s journal ran out of pages years ago; the last entry is dated November 2009, in Des Moines. Dean smiles a little every time he reads it, because he knows what’s written on the pages is not all that happened, and while Dad was a stickler for detail, Dean very much doubts he’d want to know _everything _that took place during that particular hunt. Or after.

So Dean didn’t record the way his concentration slipped, because Sam’s shoulder lost contact with his for a split second. He didn’t write about the constant flicker of the naked light bulb in the bedroom, how Sam’s eyes were dark and desperate, and the first aid kit exploded open without anyone touching it. There’s not one line about the blood, running hot and thick down his neck, or the salty pure taste of it on Sam’s tongue. No word of cheap motel sheets, skin sliding against skin, and brief salvation found in sin.

These are the details Dean kept to himself. He takes them out when he’s alone, like a hidden treasure, and marvels at the colours, runs his mind over the smooth contours of the memory.

 

 

***

_you'll see a woman  
hanging upside down  
her features covered by her fallen gown_

 

 

Mom talks to him sometimes. She sits on the closed toilet lid while Dean is having a bath and sings, or watches him pace the room with sad eyes. _I remember when you were a little boy,_ she says. _I love you, Dean._ _Don’t you want to come home? _

Dean never answers. He’s not crazy. 

 

Jess showed up once too, silhouetted in the doorway like the world’s sexiest hallucination, honey-blond hair falling in silky strands around her face. She was gorgeous, and Dean could _really_ understand what Sam saw in her.

He almost touched her himself, kneeling on the floor, arms outstretched. His fingers brushed the hem of her white dress, a smell like sunshine filling the air, and Dean wanted it, _ached_ for it, but she was there to take him away, and he wouldn’t go. 

_Won’t go_. Not without Sam.

 

***

_your servant here, he has been told  
to say it clear, to say it cold  
it's over, it ain't going  
any further_

 

 

Every evening they come to see him. 

“Hello Dean,” notSam says. “I brought dinner. You should eat more.”

“Hello Sammy,” Dean says, and looks through the expensive shirt, through flesh and bone, so that Sam knows Dean’s talking to _him_ and not anyone else. “Best not waste such a delicious meal then. Have to keep my strength up, don’t I?”

They sit down at the table.

“I could use you out there, Dean,” notSam tells him. “We’re brothers; half of everything is yours. All you need to do is take it.”

“This is actually pretty good. Guess they kept the gourmet chefs around, huh?” The steak is so tender even a plastic knife cuts through it like butter.

There’s a crash as the water pitcher hits the wall. “I’m offering you the world on a fucking plate, you stupid sonofabitch! _The world!_” Dean’s hand is suddenly pinned to the table, held immobile with enough force to make his bones grind.

NotSam hasn’t moved an inch.

“Remember Bobby’s cooking? You’d never think it to look at him, but that man sure knew his way around the kitchen.” Dean slowly reaches over with his left hand, extricates the fork from the numb fingers of his right and resumes eating.

“That one time we came back from a hunt – the male covenant in Jackson, you remember Sammy? – and every fucking joint in the country was closed because it was Christmas Day, and you said…” Dean grins as wide as he can, anything, _everything_, for his little brother. “… you said ‘Let’s go see if Bobby has a turkey big enough for us’ and so we went. I’ve never eaten that much in my life.”

NotSam is looking at his clenched fists and clearly not listening. It doesn’t matter though; Dean knows that Sam is.

 

 

***

_give me absolute control  
over every living soul  
and lie beside me, baby  
that's an order_

 

 

Strong hands are pushing his head down, the white cotton cold like snow, his mouth split open across the bed. _It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay. You’re not hurting me._ The words soak into the pillow, muffled truths given freely.

He refuses the food on occasion for fear of poison, refuses to listen to the lies, refuses to give up, but he never refuses this.

There’s the blunt pressure of teeth at the back of his neck, and Dean arches into it, shuddering. The desperate, needy noises that escape unbidden are not all his, though the blood usually is. Pleasure like thorns tears through all the open places of him, and he is drifting away, inside out and weightless.

Sometimes Dean lets himself think about that first time in Des Moines, sometimes the rest stop just outside of Albany; the feel of hot leather sticking to his knees and the dashboard digging into his back, and _Sam_, slick and gasping under him as Dean grinds down again and again and—

Sometimes Dean lets himself come, the memories spilling from his mouth like holy water, so Sam knows what it is that’s brought him off.

 

 

***

_I've seen the nations rise and fall  
I've heard their stories, heard them all  
but love's the only engine of survival_

 

 

NotSam doesn’t always stay the night, but Dean likes it when he does. He can talk to Sam then, without anyone else listening. _Shh, shh. It’s going to be fine, I swear._ Can touch him, palm skimming the lazy curve of a shoulder blade. _Just hang in there, bro._ Kiss the rise of bone, the long sweep of spine disappearing under the covers. _For me, Sam. Please._ Carefully, so as not to wake the other one, just a brush of lips against sleepy soft skin that smells so much like Sam that Dean is afraid he’ll forget the difference one day. _I won’t ever. Not ever._

The mornings are always red and black, like volcanoes. A firestorm rides the world now; its epicentre, its living heart, beating right here in this room on the seventeenth floor of the last building standing.

“It’s me, Dean. _It’s me!_” The walls are shaking, and the air reeks of ozone. “You have to see it! You must _know!_”

But the years have melted Dean into hard glass, transparent and unbreakable, and the only thing he knows, the only thing he _loves_, is his brother, and whoever this is, it’s not him.

“See you tonight, Sammy,” Dean says, feet touching the base of the mirror. In the reflection a pair of hazel eyes catch his; one man, two men, three. Dean holds the gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The door slam vibrates through the floor and into the bones of his back. Dean curls up smoothly, his body falling into the rhythm like a lover, like a promise. _One,_ he counts.

_Two. _

_Three._


End file.
